


between the living and the dead

by princegrantaire



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Dark Comedy, Gen, Haunted Houses, M/M, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl sighs and reaches for his phone, “GHOST REUNITES LIKELY LADS” flashes before his eyes in that haunting NME font, but he grabs it anyway. Calling Peter is always an adventure in itself. (Or, Carl moves to a haunted house and desperately needs Peter's help.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the living and the dead

**Author's Note:**

> based on this interview from october 2008 http://www.lep.co.uk/news/preston-s-a-great-british-new-city-1-161439

It starts small, like these things usually do (or so he’s heard). Misplaced keys, lighters, guitar picks and so on. Small, nearly insignificant things disappearing here and there, everything that can easily be attributed to human error. Carl just wishes he could stop scaring himself half to death every night when his brain inevitably starts screaming about the “murder house”.

He had bought the house for Annalisa, not exactly a gift, more of an invitation. A hint maybe, one that she clearly hadn’t taken.

“We’ve been together five years, that’s more than most of my bands,” he’d said and she’d laughed politely. That should have been the first clue probably but he’d been far too swept up in buying the house and cementing a future together and oh, where had Annalisa gone now?

Sometimes Carl wishes he possessed the ability to stop replaying over and over again the last few moments before disaster inevitably strikes, it always does just when he’s so close to letting go of his fears. Now he knows he should have settled for the little apartment they had shared in Preston for the better part of five years. He shouldn’t have forced a relationship that was already in shambles to move to _this_ house.

Regardless of the circumstances, he now lives alone in _the murder house_. Didz was the first to call it that, back when Didz was around and life hadn’t inexplicably left Carl. Now Carl is stuck with a manor on Muswell Hill where so-and-so had gotten murdered and not even a kind soul he can share the fear with.

He’d actually found out about the whole thing accidentally. Halfway through an interview and bored to death, he had started reading the little newspaper cut-out he had found the day before in the attic. It was an odd little piece of paper, perfectly preserved for god knows how long.

Surrounded by unopened boxes and with the phone cradled between his (good) ear and shoulder, Carl had realized he had stopped answering the interviewer’s questions.

Something had made him snap testily “SOMEBODY got MURDERED here, shall I speak really slowly?” and just like that the secret had been out. A film reel of all the possible headlines had quickly manifested itself in his mind. Nothing had come out of it though, no headlines, no follow-up articles, it hadn’t even been addressed by the interviewer, as if it was just another one of Carl’s little quirks, like the Evil Carl business and all that.

It’s about three months after the discovery when things start getting _really_ bad.

-

Carl gets out of the shower only to be greeted by something written in the fogged-up mirror and his own startlingly indistinct reflection. It’s just one word: “ _LEAVE_ ”, carefully written in someone’s oddly familiar handwriting. _Great_ , even the ghost is sick of him moping around the house.

He keeps musing about the handwriting for the rest of the day, can’t quite put his finger on why it’s so familiar. He plays a few songs on the permanently out of tune acoustic Stan gave him just before the band broke up, spends the usual fifteen minutes wondering how did his life become marked by that distinct air of _what could have been_ and even coaxes himself out for a quick run to the store for cigarettes but the morning’s incident still won’t leave his mind.

Carl knows he’s seen that handwriting more than a thousand times but simply can’t figure out where. It’s not Annalisa’s and it’s certainly not Didz’s loopy mess.

It all comes to a head that night when he’s finally lying in bed, at about 3 AM.

“Peter,” Carl gasps, suddenly sitting up. There’s no Peter to turn to and there hasn’t been one for a long, long time.

Peter could solve the mystery though. Or at least, the Peter he knew once could solve it. The boy with bright eyes who liked to play at being a detective, _he_ would have dragged Carl around the house shouting about a rational explanation. He’s not entirely sure he knows present day Peter, who sometimes stares emptily at him from glossy magazine covers.

Carl sighs and reaches for his phone, “ _GHOST REUNITES LIKELY LADS_ ” flashes before his eyes in that haunting NME font, but he grabs it anyway. Calling Peter is always an adventure in itself. It rings twice before going straight to voicemail. Another sigh and Carl tries to put the phone back on the nightstand only to feel something cold momentarily grab his hand. He screams bloody murder and practically falls off the bed in his haste to reach the door. He never makes it out of the room.

-

The morning finds Carl cowering in a closet, feeling impossibly small and horribly out of sorts. It’s nostalgic in a way he doesn’t want to remember. Whether it’s real or not is irrelevant, the ghost is real enough to Carl and he needs to get rid of it, it’s already caused enough death in his soul.

Carl knows there are different breeds of ghosts, a permanent loss early on had taught him enough but this was one of those rare phantoms that warranted an intervention.

He’s never really gotten used to living alone, once he met Peter he didn’t think he had to. He misses the days when the world was still theirs for the taking and they didn’t know who they were (though they knew exactly who they _wanted_ to be). Now he thinks they might just have been acting, and neither of them has ever been a particularly good actor, because nothing feels more real than _now_.

As he silently creeps out of the closet, careful not to disturb the dead, Carl decides he needs Peter, with or without a mystery to be solved. Dirty Pretty Things have been his family for a number of years now but calling them doesn’t feel like an option, it feels like betrayal. He needs to know if he and Peter still fit like they used to (not to mention that he’s pretty sure no one _but_ Peter would willing to believe there’s a ghost haunting Carl’s desolated manor, that might actually be the deciding factor).

-

It takes him another week to get in touch with Peter and that only happens because he runs into Drew on another one of his cigarette runs, which is quickly becoming the only reason Carl’s leaving the house. He had initially wanted to stay away for as long as possible but that meant having to interact with people, that meant being asked if he was working on anything new, being asked about the break-ups that seemed to follow him around and a sleepless week had left him in no state for any that.

Peter, of course, shows up in the middle of the night. Trust Peter to show up at the same time as the ghost. Three knocks and then the doorbell echoes throughout the house, still mostly empty and unfurnished even if Carl’s been living in it for a few months. He knows it must be Peter, he’s (indirectly, with the help of Drew) invited him after all but facing him suddenly seems just as daunting as having to spend another night alone with the ghost.

The rest of his friends might have called him insane, sure, but at least they were _friends_. He’s not sure what Peter is anymore, besides a walking reminder of their failures maybe. The doorbell rings again.

The walk from the bedroom to the door seems to last a lifetime. The house is too drafty, Carl thinks. Every step of the way something creaks and moans and practically begs him to go back to the safety of the bed.

Finally the door opens with a groan and Carl finds himself looking at Peter, who looks a bit manic and is clutching what seems to be an old tape recorder. He thinks it might be what they once called “ _the Bilo recorder_ ” as it only ever seemed to work in Pete’s presence. Pete seems decidedly aware of his surroundings and Carl’s relieved to see it’s not a glassy empty stare that welcomes him.

“Biggles! You…you look awful,” Pete says, head titled a bit like he’s a confused puppy. Carl doesn’t think he’s ever not fallen for that.

He ushers Peter inside, choosing to ignore what was clearly an insult. No need to start off on the wrong foot, not when there’s a ghost around. Though to be fair, Carl has _no idea_ what he looks like, he’s managed to avoid mirrors since the incident with the writing in the bathroom. It’s been quite difficult.

“Carl, slow down, what’s happened?”

Carl spins around to look at Peter and suddenly feels quite foolish. He shouldn’t have invited him here in the first place, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think it’s the right time for any kind of reunion. It still feels too soon, even if years have passed. It’s not a wound Carl wants to reopen any time soon.

“The house is haunted and I don’t know how much more I can take and everyone’s left me and the band’s gone and maybe I’m nothing without you because everything I’ve ever written is shit and now this fucking ghost won’t leave me alone! I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do, Peter, I don’t know…”

Everything comes pouring out in one breath and Carl can’t quite contain it, feels himself tearing up in front of Peter for the first time since the whiskey and the bathroom mirror so many years ago. It’s easy, far _too_ easy to let Peter just hold him until daylight and he’s almost glad when they’re interrupted by someone playing the piano. It’s a familiar tune, though again he can’t quite place it.

That might be what’s bothered Carl the most about this whole situation, everything about it is familiar but always in ways that he doesn’t really remember. As if it’s something he’s seen or heard so often he’s somehow become desensitized to it. Peter seems sufficiently startled though.

“What the fuck was that?” He’s clearly genuinely surprised Carl had been telling the truth about the haunting.

“Just let it be for now, it gets worse,” Carl finally says, sniffling a bit. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

They leave the tape recorder on a table and he leads Peter to the bathroom upstairs. Carl turns on the shower and shushes Peter every time he opens his mouth, presumably to make some innuendo-filled joke. Once he deems the room sufficiently filled with steam he points to the mirror, where “ _LEAVE_ ” has manifested itself again.

“That’s one of the first things the ghost did around here,” he whispers. “The handwriting looks really familiar so I thought you might know whose it is.”

“Carl?” Peter seems on the verge of a laughing fit.

“What?” Carl snaps.

“Have you written anything lately?”

“Fuck off, don’t _you_ start.”

“Have you looked at your tattoo lately?”

“Pete, focus, it’s not the time to get nostalgic!”

Peter starts laughing properly now and rolls up Carl’s sleeve while Carl keeps trying to bat his hand away.

“Happy n-“ Carl starts but the words die in his throat as he looks properly at his tattoo. The L and E in “ _libertine_ ” are certainly the same ones as in “ _LEAVE_ ”.

“That’s…that’s my handwriting.”

Carl continues staring at the mirror, stunned, while Peter laughs his head off. It seems impossible. How in the world could he have written those words on the mirror? Had he sleepwalked? He can’t come up with a single explanation and Peter is being particularly unhelpful.

“Well I’m gonna make some breakfast,” Peter concludes, cheerily.

Carl stares in a mirror for another moment. The steam’s gone and it’s the first time he’s seeing his reflection in a week. He _does_ look awful, Peter was right about that at least. With one last glance at his tired, ragged reflection he hurries off to the kitchen, where he’s sure Peter has started demolishing something. He feels more confused than ever before.

-

Peter’s sat in the one chair in the kitchen, nursing what seems to be a slightly chipped cup of tea. He looks fine ( _sober_ but Carl is hesitant to bring that up even in his own thoughts), better than he’d expected.

“It’s actually about 2 AM, bit early for breakfast,” Peter explains when he sees Carl’s confused look.

Carl just nods. Now that the ghost has disappeared for the time being, he feels the full effect of Peter’s presence, how they just don’t slide together anymore, uneven edges bumping into each other instead of fitting together like they used to. There didn’t use to be any awkward silences between them but Carl suddenly feels at loss for words.

“Carlos, be honest. Did you stage the whole thing just to get me here?”

Carl wants to scream and rage at him, wants to show him that he’d never sink quite that low but there’s no energy left. He hasn’t slept in a week and being around Peter has always been tiring, too unpredictable.

“You’re welcome to leave if that’s what you really think, _Bilo_ ,” he says, not with as much venom as he’d wanted.

Carl runs a hair through his unwashed hair and mumbles something about going to bed. He just hopes Peter won’t actually take him up on his offer.

-

Carl is awaken by the sound of tea being stirred but he manages to swallow a startled gasp as soon as he realizes it’s _probably_ Peter. He pads along the corridor to the kitchen but everything is eerily quiet once again.

He passes a window on his way and can’t help noticing it’s dark again. He must have slept the whole day. He almost wants to apologize to Peter, not just for that morning but for _everything_. He doesn’t find him in the kitchen but he does find about a dozen or more cups of tea, covering the entire table. Carl stares for a moment but continues through the house.

Finally he finds Peter in one of the bathrooms, folded in on himself in the bathtub and holding that old tape recorder he had brought with him.

“Shh,” Peter says and gestures for Carl to get in.

Carl shrugs and tries to fit as well as he can in the bathtub without touching Peter too much. It should be a silly sight, bony knees knocking against each other and impossible attempts at maintaining a distance, but it feels deathly serious.

“I saw him,” Peter whispers after a few minutes. He’s never been one for silences, awkward or otherwise.

“Who?” Carl whispers back.

“You.”

Carl’s blood runs cold but he keeps silent. Peter starts recording again.

He’s heard of people being haunted by an aspect of themselves but not in any _real_ capacity, not like this. He’s always believed in ghosts, he thinks Peter has too, but only as reminders of the past, unable to interact with the present in any way. This could very well something out of a horror film and Carl can’t quite understand how that’s got anything to do with him.

-

Once Peter gets bored of sitting in silence and recording, he drags Carl back to the master bedroom so they can “regroup”, though Carl suspects Pete’s only looking for the bottles of Jameson he keeps stashed around the house.

“Pete, are you…how are you doing?” Carl asks, sitting on the floor next to the tape recorder.

“You’re asking if I’m clean,” Peter replies, sounding vaguely amused. “Have you heard my album?”

Carl has, many times. He shakes his head.

“Shame,” Peter says simply, settling on the floor next to Carl with one of the bottles he liberated from a drawer.

“Let’s listen to the tape, we might find something.”

Peter nods at Carl’s suggestion and plays the tape. It’s silent for a long while, long enough for Peter to start fidgeting, but finally someone starts whispering. It sounds like Carl, _too_ much like Carl since they can only make out a few meaningless words. He wordlessly takes the bottle from Peter’s hands.

“So when did you find out about the haunting?”

“Few months ago, October maybe?” Carl shrugs. “I found this newspaper cut-out in the attic when I was cleaning it. I don’t think I’ve actually unpacked anything since then. It didn’t mention a name or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Maybe the ghost of whoever died here somehow got mixed with…you know…” Peter sounds uncharacteristically hesitant.

“With what?”

“Evil…Carl…?”

“Well he’s not fucking real, is he?”

Carl scoffs and gets up, taking the bottle with him. The house is big enough, he could probably avoid Peter for at least a day. But that’s not the point, is it? He hasn’t called Peter here just to avoid him because he can’t take a joke about his so-called evil alter ego. Somewhere in the house the piano starts playing again, this time Carl recognizes the tune. It’s a slightly slower version of _You’re My Waterloo_. Peter’s way of apologizing?

“Are you hearing that?” Peter suddenly asks, bursting into the corridor.

“I thought it was you.”

The piano is predictably empty but most of the windows have been inexplicably left open. He doesn’t know what it means but he wants it to be over already, wants to get rid of what has become a palpable air of death.

“You need to let go of Evil Carl, that’s the only way we’re getting rid of this,” Peter decides.

“Peter, this is the last time I’m saying this: Evil Carl is not real, I made him up because I didn’t want to say _Bang Bang You’re Dead_ was about _you_.”

Peter doesn’t seem entirely convinced and Carl can’t quite decide if threats of violence would be more convincing or not. Whatever ghost is causing all this seems to know an awful lot about them and he can’t help but consider, for a moment at least, that Peter might be right. Here he is, Carl Barat, the only person in the world to have ever influenced a ghost negatively.

“Fine!” Carl says suddenly, pushing past Peter into the room. “If I’m really haunting myself, show us a sign!”

Carl’s beloved Edie Sedgwick poster, practically the only ornament in the room, suddenly falls off the wall. Peter starts clapping and Carl wishes for his own sudden death, for the sole purpose of haunting Peter.

-

They don’t do anything for the rest of the night and by 4 AM they decide to camp out in the one bedroom Carl has been using since this whole mess started. Sleep is quickly dismissed when Carl starts periodically nearly screaming at every little sound, ignoring Peter’s claims that it’s “just the house settling”.

“Do you think this will stop if I start writing again?” Carl suddenly asks, turning a bit to look at Peter.

Peter seems genuinely surprised, enough to urge Carl to continue.

“Well Evil Carl only appears if I’m not being creative so I have to stop wallowing and start writing again, right?”

For the first time in months he feels a brief glimmer of genuine happiness, of hope even.

-

The next day Carl starts work on a potential solo album and Peter leaves again, this time with promises of an actual reunion, one not tainted by a ghostly presence.

**Author's Note:**

> \- the bilo recorder and "the whiskey and the bathroom mirror" are both taken from pete's forum post about the sink incident  
> \- takes place from october 2008 to early 2009
> 
> hope you all enjoyed it x


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